


paint this town blood red.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: murder was the case that they gave me. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Bloodplay, Graphic Description, M/M, Murderers, Psychos in love, Sexual Content, Strangulation, That's probably the best way to describe it, This is just really violent and graphic, Unsafe Sex, Well it's sort of bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Castiel,” the man says quietly and huh, it's kind of a weird name, especially for a man that's dressed like an accountant. </p><p>“Pleasure to meet you,” he replies and although he has dozens of fake names stashed away in his head, he doesn't bother reaching for any of them.  “I'm Dean.”  </p><p>There's no point in providing an alias to someone who is going to be dead within the next four hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint this town blood red.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkippyMcVy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkippyMcVy/gifts).



> I have absolutely no idea where this came from. But it is heavily inspired by Leviathan!Cas and Cain!Dean and it's is easily the most violent, twisted thing I have written in a very, very long time. I hope you lovely readers enjoy it. <3
> 
> Title taken from the song [Catch Me If You Can](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpgxC4Zfuck) by Leathermouth, although I don't know if I recommend you listen to it. It's... angry, for lack of a better term.

There's a man sitting on the other side of the restaurant. 

He's not the only other man in the restaurant, but to Dean, he's the only one that matters. Dean's been sitting alone in a corner booth for the past hour or so, slowly picking away at a subpar steak and nursing a beer long gone warm. There are fresh stitches on his bicep and he's trying his very hardest not to scratch them every time the stiff fabric of his shirt brushes over them. He'd tried his best to scrape out all the dried blood from underneath his nails but he can still see flecks of it here and there and he wonders if there's some stuck in the stubble on his face, wonders if that's why the man across the restaurant has been blatantly staring at him at him for the entire time that he's been sitting down. 

Dean doesn't think so though. He knows what horror and suspicion look like, had memorized the expressions long ago out of necessity. Instead, the look on the man's face looks more like unadulterated curiosity and Dean is totally okay with that, especially since he's pretty curious about the man himself. Despite the fact that it's nearly two in the morning, he's still wearing a full suit, albeit a rumpled one and there's a nondescript, beige trench coat tossed over the back of his chair. He's dining alone, although Dean doesn't think he's seen him touch his food for a number of minutes. It's hard to tell with the distance, but Dean thinks he's caught a flash of gold around the man's ring finger once or twice. 

Dean knows how to recognize a lonely, weary businessman when he sees one and he masks his grin in the neck of his beer bottle. Sammy's asleep up in their own room, covered in gashes and stitches of his own, the skinwalker they'd come into town to gank is dead and buried and there's an itch underneath Dean's skin, an itch that makes his hands twitch, an itch that he is oh so excited to scratch.

Everything is coming up roses. 

He takes a final bite of his long-cold steak and finishes his beer before he stands up and crosses the room. The man doesn't move for a few moments, like he's still staring at the after-image of Dean sitting in the booth, but then his brain catches up and he literally jumps in his seat, face flushing with red. This time, Dean doesn't bother to hide his grin, but it's much different than the one his bottle had caught; it's all teeth and crinkled eyes. It's one of the many tools in his repertoire and under the right circumstances, it can be just as effective as salt at trapping someone. 

“Hey there,” he says, hand resting on the top of the unoccupied chair that is directly across from the man. “Looking for some company?” It sounds like something a prostitute would say and that's exactly the point; it's an unfortunate fact of life that prostitutes are generally not threatening. They're usually the prey, not the predators. Dean knows all this, knows it like the back of his hand, just like he knows that the man will nod quickly, cheeks and jaw still flushed red underneath his dark stubble. 

Sure enough, the man does exactly that and Dean sits down, crossing his forearms on the table. The waiter, who is nearly asleep on his feet, comes back around at that moment and Dean orders a glass of water and once he's left again, he switches from his grin to a tempting smirk. 

“What's your name, stranger?” he asks and he tracks the man's Adam's apple as it bobs in his throat. His fingers are splayed on the edge of the tabletop, nervously fiddling with the thin linen, and sure enough, there's a thin gold band on his left ring finger, catching the dim light every so often. 

It's not often that Dean is wrong. 

“Castiel,” the man says quietly and huh, it's kind of a weird name, especially for a man that's dressed like an accountant. Dean likes it though, likes how it'll be easy to remember amongst a sea of normal names like John and Edward and Brad. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he replies and although he has dozens of fake names stashed away in his head, he doesn't bother reaching for any of them. “I'm Dean.” 

There's no point in providing an alias to someone who is going to be dead within the next four hours.

***

Dean Winchester isn't exactly a normal person.

He's known that since he was a kid, long before the irrepressible urge had first started to wriggle its way underneath his skin. It was quite obvious that normal kids didn't grow up in a string of anonymous motel rooms and condemned houses, didn't know how to take out a demon by the time they were ten. Normal kids didn't sometimes have nightmares of their mother being pinned to the ceiling, engulfed in an endless sea of flames. 

Normal kids weren't raised to be hunters. 

But it wasn't just that. Because sure, most kids weren't raised to be soldiers against the armies of evil but he was certain that most kids wanted to save lives and hell, until he was a teenager, that was all Dean had wanted to do as well. His father had engrained in him that his mission in life was to kill evil, to prevent other people from being hurt the way their mother had been hurt and that had genuinely been his goal. The feeling of saving someone, of knowing that you had been the one to pull them back from the brink of death, it was a pretty intoxicating feeling, one you never really got over. 

It was just that, somewhere around the time he turned sixteen, Dean had started getting the urge to make that scale tip the other way.

It started out slowly, progressed over a number of months. It was almost like an itch in the very depths of his soul, an itch that he couldn't reach through booze or sex or saving people. It got worse and worse, to the point where he couldn't sleep. He simply laid there and dreamed of death, dreamed of holding and using knives covered in blood and although he used to throw up when he got out of these dreams, that quickly stopped. 

But still, although the itch was nearly suffocating, made it so that he couldn't think and he couldn't sleep and he could hardly focus on his training, he had no plans on ever succumbing to it. He just figured that if he ignored it long enough, it would go away, or, at the very least, it would be easier to ignore with time.

But as soon as he scratched it once, as soon as he quenched the thirst for death that had taken up residence just underneath his skin, there was absolutely no going back. 

It had been an accident. Their dad had been gone on a hunting trip somewhere up North and he'd left Dean and Sam in a dilapidated farmhouse on the outskirts of some anonymous town in Wisconsin. The thing really didn't have anything worth stealing in it but nonetheless, someone had broken into it one night. They'd gone into town one night to pick up some food and when they walked back through the front door, Dean almost literally ran into the man that was standing in the entryway, combing through the pile of junk mail on the wobbly table just beside the door, like he was looking for credit card statements or something equally incriminating. 

He was holding a knife in his hand and he was a tall, beefy guy, with broad shoulders and even with all his training, Dean knew that the odds weren't exactly in his favor. So instead of wasting time hemming and hawing, he shoved Sammy behind him, yanked his own knife out of the inside of his jacket and tackled the man around the waist, taking advantage of his lack of balance as he turned. His back hit the ground with a loud thud and before the echo of that noise had left the entryway, Dean had shoved the blade of his knife into the soft tissue of the man's throat. Even though the knife sank in to the hilt, the man kept struggling, massive hands pressing into Dean's wrists, just barely skimming over pressure points that Dean knew would knock the fight right out of him. 

So he pulled as hard as he could, dragging the knife through pale skin and tough flesh, blood spraying in fine flecks against his face. He was aware that there was a sharp pain in his leg, burning like someone had grabbed hold of one of his nerves and was twisting it, but he kept sawing until the man's body softened underneath him. There was still blood dripping from the man's thick lips but he was no longer breathing and it was only then that Dean looked down to realize that the man's knife was protruding from his leg, sunk into the meaty part of his thigh. 

But even though the pain was pure and utter hell, so bad that it was making his vision flicker white at the edge, Dean ignored it, because for the first time ever, that itch, that horribly tempting itch had fled from underneath his skin. From head to toe, Dean felt _relieved_ , felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in fucking months and he leaned back onto his knees, hands literally dripping with the blood of another human being and he felt fucking _great._

He didn't quite manage to wipe the grin off his face before he turned around, but thankfully, Sammy wasn't looking at him; instead, his little brother was throwing up onto his knobbly knees and onto the threadbare doormat. While he was occupied with emptying the contents of his stomach, Dean wiped his arm across his face and when he pulled it away, the hair growing on his forearms was matted with blood.

When Sammy finally turned back around, there were tears leaking from the corner of his red eyes and there was puke streaked down the front of his shirt and Dean felt a twinge of guilt settling heavily in his gut. He didn't regret killing the guy, not at all, because the man had a knife and could have hurt them, could have hurt Sammy but Dean knew that he could have probably done it in a way that wasn't so damn messy. Even if feeling the man's blood on his hands made him feel like he was flying, he knew that Sam shouldn't have had to witness it.

“Sammy, go get yourself cleaned up,” he said, standing up and bracing himself against the wall as a lightning bolt of pain shot up his leg. “I'll deal with this, but I'm gonna need you to stitch me up, okay?” Sam looked like he might throw up again or cry more at any moment, but he did exactly what he was told; carefully stepping around the ever-growing pool of blood that was soaking into the carpet of the hallway, he took off down the hall. Dean waited until he was upstairs before he limped his way to the man's feet and wrapped his hands around the man's ankles. He was heavy as fucking hell and Dean's vision kept fading to black as the knife shifted in his wound but somehow, he managed to drag the man out the front door and onto the lawn. By the time he staggered back inside, he was starting to get dizzy and he barely managed to reach the bathroom before he was collapsing to the floor and hollering as pain shot through seemingly every nerve in his body.

But even while Sam pulled the knife out and stitched him up, even while he was biting down on his own arm to make it through the pain without passing out, Dean didn't regret a single thing. He'd satisfied an urge, one that had been eating away at him for so long and he felt like he'd just been injected with something, like he was completely fucking high on something or another.

Somehow though, even after that first time, he'd suspected that no drug induced high could even come close to matching the feeling coursing through his veins. 

Once Dean was all stitched up and sure that he wasn't going to bleed out from the wound, they had pulled out the carpet from the front hall, which was so sodden with blood that it had seeped through and stained the thin plywood underneath. Dean waited until Sammy had fallen asleep on the ragged couch in the living room before he set the carpet and the body on fire. He stared at the blaze until the sun was peeking over the horizon and the corpse was nothing more than a smoking pile of charred bones and he was asleep for all of an hour before Sammy was waking up with a scream and Dean had to calm him back down. 

Their dad returned a week later. He never asked about the missing carpet in the front hall and Dean never told. 

It was merely the first of many things Dean never told his father. And even though Sammy knew all too well about the first time Dean quenched his thirst for the blood of a stranger, Dean makes sure that he never finds out about the second or the third or the tenth time.

Sure, they're close; they're all they have, all they've ever had (because sure, their dad had given them skills and order and discipline but he certainly hadn't given them love). But still, there are some things you just don't tell your sibling, some things you just don't talk about and even though Dean can see it in Sam's eyes sometimes, sees the barely concealed memories when he dispatches a demon a little too eagerly or gets drenched in gore from a skinwalker, it never comes up. 

At the very least, Dean is thankful for that.

***

It's nearing three in the morning and Dean is pretty sure that Castiel is drunk. Whether it's off of alcohol or lust, Dean isn't sure, but what's important is that the man is leaning forward on the table, his blue eyes trained on Dean, obviously undressing him in the confines of his mind. At some point, he had slipped off his wedding ring and Dean's having a hard time trying not to smirk. The guy's fucking gorgeous, there's no doubt about it, and Dean really wants to feel that stubble underneath his palm or against his thighs. He has no doubt that he's going to look equally gorgeous when Dean's hands are dragging a knife across his wrists or his throat. He hasn't quite decided how he wants to quench his bloodthirst tonight; there's another drive of his that he wants to satisfy first and since Castiel is _definitely_ willing, might as well kill two birds with one stone.

“Do you wanna take this conversation somewhere else?” Dean asks, interrupting Castiel (who is an accountant in town for a convention) in the middle of a boring spiel about said convention. “Somewhere a little more private, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Castiel breathes and he's out of his chair like a horse out of a gate. “Yes, please.” He reaches into his back pocket and drops some cash on the table to cover the bill before his long fingers wrap around Dean's wrist and pull him gently towards the door. Dean goes along with it willingly, keeping his head down so that no one can see the smirk settled firmly on his face. He'll get his fun soon enough; if Castiel wants to think he's in control of the situation for a little while, he's willing to give him that privilege. 

Cas doesn't drop Dean's wrist until they're in the elevator. He presses the button for the third floor (Dean and Sam are staying on the ground floor, the quicker to leave from) and the doors have barely slid closed before he's pressing Dean up against the wall, pressing sloppy kisses against his mouth like he's covering up his nervousness with enthusiasm. Nonetheless, Dean can still feel the way his limbs are trembling where they're pressed up against him and suddenly, it occurs him that this is probably Castiel's first time doing this. Maybe he's thought about it before but Dean is pretty certain that this is the first time the lonely accountant succumbed to his urges and decided to go chasing after something he probably wasn't getting at home.

It's kind of cute, actually. It's almost a shame that he isn't going to have a chance to do it again. 

Dean gives as good as he gets and by the time the sluggish elevator creaks open on the third floor, Castiel's belt is already unbuckled and hanging open against the front of his trousers. One of the buttons on Dean's shirt has been yanked off and it crunches underneath his boots as they stumble out into the hallway, but no matter; he has enough experience with stitches to make sewing a new button on not a difficult task. 

Castiel's room is the last one in the hallway, furthest away from the elevator and even as the man tugs him along like an eager kid at Christmas, Dean can't help the spring that finds its way into his step. The pieces just kept falling into place. While Cas fumbles with his keycard, Dean adjusts the knife inside his jacket so that it isn't digging into his ribs and then the door's opening and closing behind them and Dean is being slammed into it with a surprising amount of force. Castiel's mouth is on his again, teeth biting at his lip, tongue dragging against his teeth and when Dean swallows, he can taste just a hint of blood, like a tease for what is going to happen. The thought makes electricity flow through his veins and he doesn't bother trying to stop the shiver that goes through his body. 

“Holy fuck Cas,” he groans, the nickname falling from his mouth as the man presses his blunt teeth against where Dean's pulse beats underneath his skin. Dean's eyes are closed and his fingers are flexing against the smooth fabric of Castiel's jacket, trying to pull him impossibly closer. “Feels really good.”

“Gonna feel even better in a minute,” Castiel growls against his throat and-

Wait. Dean's eyes shoot open. Something isn't right, he can practically taste the sudden change in the air on the tip of his tongue. Acting upon pure instinct, honed over years of being a hunter (of both demons and humans), he shoves Castiel away from him, just in time to see a long, pointed blade (which resembles a stake more than it does a knife) slip soundlessly out of the sleeve of Castiel's jacket, into his awaiting hand. Dean pulls his own knife out, which looks like a pig sticker compared to the sophisticated weapon in Castiel's (if that's his real name) fingers. 

The man is still wearing the same clothes but he looks nothing like the weary accountant Dean had set his sights on. The sheepish, nervous smile he'd been sending across the table in the restaurant has been replaced by something feral, something animalistic. All of his teeth are showing and Dean swears that his eyes have shifted in color slightly, even though that can't be possible. For a few seconds, his brain screams _demon_ but Castiel's pupils don't disappear in a swirl of black. Instead, the man simply chuckles and gracefully twirls his blade between his fingers, the motion obviously practiced. 

“Well. This just got a lot more interesting,” Castiel murmurs in a tone rife with something akin to admiration, eyes flicking up and down Dean's frame, grin not leaving his face. Dean keeps his gaze firmly on Castiel's body; no matter how unnerving that vicious smile is, he won't allow himself to get distracted by it. He knows all too well just how much of a distraction a face can be, how a smile can give you the opportunity you need to slit someone's throat. 

“What are you?” he asks, watching the shift of Castiel's feet, noting the way his fingers effortlessly move around the handle of his knife. 

“I'm just a person, like you,” Castiel says, the words _bouncing_ out of his mouth. “Although I have to admit, I didn't expect that the two of us would be _so_ similar. I thought you were just another pretty face.” 

“Well, I'm not _just_ that,” Dean replies, trying to keep his face stony and unrevealing, even though his brain is a mass of turmoil. Not once has he been played; he's been trained since he was a kid to notice any anomalies within people, to know if they were weak or strong, or hiding a secret. But Cas had slipped right by him, played his role so damn well that Dean kind of wants to applaud him. 

Or kill him. Maybe both. 

“Well, that's clear now,” Castiel chuckles, fingers still idly twirling his blade. “I mean, you definitely _are_ a pretty face, don't get me wrong, but you're dangerous too.” He steps forward, the buckle of his still-open belt clinking against the front of his black trousers and Dean stands his ground, refuses to give in because submitting is not part of his philosophy, not unless it's to the mouthwatering bloodlust that sets his veins on fire.

“How many have you killed?” Castiel asks, his deep voice smooth and dangerous and promising, like the brush of a riding crop along skin. He's toe to toe with Dean now, the blade still in his hands and although Dean tries his best to focus on the curve of his shoulder, on the veins in his neck, he inevitably looks into Castiel's eyes and the look there is like nothing he's ever seen. It's sort of similar to the one Dean has seen some demons get, like a barely restrained childish glee and want for violence, but there's something very human about it as well. It's like a spark of lust deep within his irises and that look makes Dean's stomach churn in a way that's just on this side of pleasant. 

“Don't know,” he says casually. “Didn't bother keeping track.” It's a blatant lie; in the back of his father's journal, hidden underneath a newspaper clipping about a wendigo case, Dean has drawn twenty-two tiny lines, each of them with a initial underneath, just enough to invoke a series of bloodied, frenzied memories. 

“I don't believe that for a second,” Castiel sing-songs, his mocking words brushing over Dean's cheek. Dean's fingers shift on the handle of his knife and he can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Me on the other hand? I've got _no_ idea. I lost count long ago.” 

Dean believes him. 

“Have you ever thought about sharing?” The sudden shift in topic knocks Dean slightly off guard and he tries to hide the shiver that shoots down his spine when Castiel's wicked mouth brushes against his ear.

“Sharing?” Dean asks, wincing at the dark chuckle that tickles against his neck. “You mean having a partner? Because I already have one of those.” 

“Oh, you mean the tall guy you've been with all weekend?” Dean has no idea where Cas saw him with Sammy because as far as he can remember, he hadn't seen Cas until he'd sat down in the restaurant only a few hours ago. If the guy's been watching him for a few days, he's definitely more than just a predator; he's a hunter, stalking his prey, playing with his food before he eats it. It's almost admirable. 

“I thought about going after him,” Castiel says slowly, taking a few steps backwards, feral grin lighting up his face again. “I bet that he would have put up one hell of a fight.” Dean knows it's a taunt but knowing it doesn't stop his blood from boiling and doesn't stop red from seeping into his vision because _nobody_ hurts or even thinks about hurting the only person in the world he gives a genuine shit about.

So when Cas shifts just slightly, adjusting his stance, Dean strikes. He tosses his knife aside so that he doesn't accidentally stab himself and he lunges, driving the ridge of his shoulder into the hard muscle of Castiel's stomach. It knocks Castiel to the bed and while Dean tries to wrap his hands around Castiel's throat, the other man fights back like a cornered cat. He bucks his pelvis off of the bed, drives his heels into the back of Dean's knees, swings his arms out. Dean tries his best to avoid his flailing limbs but when he moves to press his knee into the curve of Castiel's elbow, to pin his arm to the bed, there's a sudden explosion of pain and a crunch like glass shattering as his nose is broken by the heel of Castiel's palm. It's not the first time it's happened to him but the agony isn't something you get used to and the distraction is all Castiel needs to reverse their positions. 

Dean thinks he blacks out. It's only for a few seconds, ten maximum, but when he comes to, he's staring down at the beige carpet of the hotel room, which is quickly turning crimson as drops of blood fall from his shattered nose. There's a knee pressing into the center of his back and before he can suck in a breath, there's hard leather being wrapped and _pulled_ around his throat. 

“Never try to beat someone at their own game,” Castiel hisses and Dean can barely hear him over his own desperate gasps for air. He can hear the clink of Castiel's belt buckle behind him, chiming with each flex of his fingers. Dean's never strangled someone before, not as a main event at least and he knows that if he survives, he'll never do it again because even though there's no denying his lust for blood, strangulation just seems fucking _cruel._ He knows he's imagining it but it truly feels like he can feel his cells dying with each long, breathless second that ticks by. 

It's not his own death that he's afraid of; that's bound to happen eventually. But he's afraid that Cas will go after Sammy if he doesn't manage to get away and _that's_ terrifying. He slides his hands across the carpet, desperately reaches under the bed and after a second, his hands close around the handle of his knife. Reaching Cas with the blade might be possible but Dean doesn't want to risk it, so instead of flailing backwards, he grabs the leather belt around his neck with his fingertips and yanks it away from his neck as hard as he can. He only manages to get a few centimeters of space between the constricting material and his skin but it's still enough room for him to slide the blade of his knife through and twist it until it's sawing against the belt. By the time Castiel reacts, the belt is falling away from his throat and Dean reaches backwards until he grabs a handful of Castiel's clothing and yanks, _hard._ It's an awkward movement, a rough slip and slide that strains the muscles in Dean's body but he keeps pulling until Castiel falls onto the floor and even though he's practically choking on his own blood, Dean follows him, pinning the dark-haired man down, fingers tight around the handle of his knife and-

Castiel kisses him, _hard._ His tongue presses into Dean's mouth when it drops open from the shock and his nose roughly bashes against Dean's and Dean sees fireworks of pain behind his eyes. He tries to pull away but Cas bites down onto his lip and licks away at the blood drying around Dean's mouth and even though Dean is certain Castiel is just trying to distract him, he's not going to deny that it feels good, that it awakens an entirely different kind of itch underneath his skin. 

So he flings his knife across the room and kisses back and when Castiel isn't hiding his rabid eyes under the traveling businessman mask, he is one _hell_ of a kisser. His hands are as vicious as his mouth, fitting themselves against Dean's hips and he's sure that he'll have bruises there if he ever leaves the motel room. Soon enough, his fingers are tearing at the button on Dean's jeans, ripping it right off and his teeth are dragging over the bruised flesh on Dean's neck, scraping over the abrasions from the rough leather of his belt. Dean hardly has time to process the pain, because Cas is smearing his hand over Dean's blood sticky face and sliding it underneath his boxers and _oh._

Even after all the shit he's done, Dean thinks that the fact he lets Castiel jerk him off with his own blood is probably the most fucked up thing he's ever done. Or maybe it's the fact that he doesn't recoil when Castiel licks off his hand afterwards, tongue twisting between each of his fingers until they're clean of blood and cum. He doesn't really know but when he reaches for the zipper of Castiel's trousers (to return the _thanks for not killing me while I was coming_ favor), his palm brushes over a still-spreading damp spot and the dark chuckle that falls from Castiel's throat is enough to make Dean's eyes search for where his knife is. 

“Sorry 'bout that,” Castiel says, leaning back on his haunches. There's a massive grin plastered on his face once again and Dean can see blood still sticking between the cracks in his teeth. “Got a little overexcited.” 

“That's okay,” Dean replies slowly, zipping his jeans back up. He can't see the button anywhere nearby but he has more important things to worry about, like how Castiel is simply staring at him with his head tilted, like he's examining some curiosity at the zoo. 

“Dean, I'm not going to kill you,” he finally says, nodding once. “I'm going to ask that you return the favor and not kill me.”

“Why should I?” Truthfully, he has no plans on killing Cas, mainly because he doesn't think he has the physical strength to do it. There's a thick layer of blood on seemingly every inch of his face and his limbs feel heavy and he's pretty sure that the fresh stitches in his arm have split open. But he tries his best to remain stone faced, to not betray how terrifyingly _weak_ he feels. Instead of replying, Castiel simply snickers like he's heard the world's funniest joke and stands up, shedding the jacket of his suit, which is now sporting a large rip along the side. 

“Goodbye Dean,” he says pointedly before he disappears into the en-suite bathroom and shuts the door behind him. For a few moments, Dean thinks about blocking the door, about setting the room on fire and grabbing Sammy and getting the hell out. But the thought of lighting someone ablaze makes his stomach sink and he feels like he's about to pass out anyways so he grabs his knife from the floor, tucks it back into his jacket and manages to stumble his way down two flights of stairs (less chance of running into people) and into his own hotel room. Sam bolts wide awake when he steps through the door but Dean manages to say _Sammy, s'okay, just me_ before Sam turns the light on and sees the carnage that is his face. 

He washes his face in the dark and swigs mouthwash to get the taste of blood out of his mouth and gets less than three hours of sleep before he wakes up to the smell of breakfast. Sam's already found them on a new case on his laptop and by eight o'clock, they're ready to hit the road again. 

Sam doesn't ask about Dean's nose or inquire as to why the stitches in his arm need replacing and Dean thanks the Lord for small favors.

Dean doesn't notice the tiny white piece of paper tucked underneath the windshield wiper until he's about to open the driver's side door of the Impala. It's hardly larger than a business card and when Dean flips it over, there's a phone number written on it, with one sentence underneath it in tiny, cramped writing. 

_For if you ever want a real partner._

“What's that?” Sam asks him from the other side of the car, squinting at him from underneath his floppy hair and Dean just shrugs. 

“Some Jesus freak advertisement,” he mutters but as soon as Sam looks away, Dean tucks the card into his jacket pocket, right next to his knife.

***

There's a man sitting on the other side of the restaurant.

It's actually more of a diner, attached to a motel of questionable quality and at two in the morning, it's mainly populated by truck drivers and prostitutes. The man sitting at the end of the counter, sipping on a mug of acrid coffee, doesn't fit into either of those categories. There's a suit jacket carelessly slung over the back of his chair and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and he's been casting glances towards Dean for the past ten minutes. When Dean shoots him his patented grin, the man blushes right to the roots of his blonde hair and when he looks back down at his plate, Dean sends off a text to a number he still hasn't saved in his contact list. 

_found you a present._

Ten minutes later, Dean pays for his food and leaves the diner. The man is quickly behind him and one nervous nod is all Dean needs to take the man by the wrist and gently pull him to the room at the end of the row. He can feel the anxious energy vibrating through the man's skin and he can't help but smirk, disguising it in a cough. Sam's still conked out in their motel, on the other side of town and when he reaches room 113, he can see the dim light of a lamp through the window. 

It's going to be a wonderful night. 

“I've never done this before,” the man stammers once Dean closes the door behind him and Dean steps in closer to him, runs a hand down his smooth jaw and watches as a shadow appears on the wall. 

“That's okay,” he says calmly, looking over the man's shoulders and meeting the gaze of a vivid pair of blue eyes. “We have.” 

“What?” 

It's the last word the man gets in before there's a thick leather belt being wrapped around his throat. Cas is giggling, looking the very definition of unhinged as he loops the belt around the man's thin neck and yanks harder, yanks until the man can't even gasp for breath. Dean pulls his favorite serrated knife out of his pocket and sheds his jacket before he steps forward and drags it down the man's heaving chest. 

“Nice to see you again,” Castiel pants, his knuckles turning white as he pulls harder on the belt, the buckle brushing against his fist. 

“You too,” Dean murmurs quietly as he sinks his knife into the soft flesh of the man's stomach. He falls unconscious seconds afterward and Castiel releases his grip on the belt so that they can drag him to the bed, which is covered in plastic wrap. He stirs after only a few moments and before he can let out a scream, Cas wraps his large hands around the man's throat and Dean carves another line down his abdomen. 

Thirteen minutes after three in the morning, the man takes a final shuddering breath and falls still. Dean's clothes are covered in blood and he knows that he'll have to burn them or something but that can wait until later. At the moment, what matters is that he can't feel the maddening itch underneath his skin; all he can feel is warm blood seeping between his fingers and Castiel's breath brushing along his ear and when he turns around to face him properly, Castiel's face is flushed red and his cock is obviously straining against the front of his black trousers. 

“Thank you for the present,” he says and instead of replying with words, Dean grabs the front of Castiel's shirt and yanks him forward with enough force that they slip on the slick plastic sheeting and fall onto the floor. 

It's the first time he kisses Castiel while they're drenched in someone else's blood, but Dean knows that it is far from the last.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
